


blame it on the roomba

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Winterhawk Bingo [20]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Anxiety, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Loves The Robots, Crying During Sex, Dom Clint Barton, Edging, Established Relationship, Lingerie, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Bucky Barnes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise, Sub Bucky Barnes, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:41:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23464117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: Bucky blames the internet for it.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Winterhawk Bingo [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1443160
Comments: 46
Kudos: 277
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo





	blame it on the roomba

Bucky blames the internet for it.

If he doesn’t have the internet to blame for this he has to blame _himself_ , which is a little like taking responsibility and he doesn’t want to do that.

He hadn’t really considered what would happen next when he was browsing that online store. It had been a quick, thoughtless purchase - impossible to have done in any other circumstance, but the relative anonymity and lack of effort required had made it no more than clicking a few buttons.

He’d already known Clint’s measurements, which is - probably weird, now he’s thinking about it.

So he’d ordered the stuff and then promptly forgotten about it right up until the blank, unassuming box arrives on his doorstep, courtesy of JARVIS.

“Was this- did anyone see this?”

“ _No, sir_ ,” JARVIS says from above him. “ _Mister Stark has strict confidentiality rules for each Avenger and their deliveries. It was handled by the delivery man and then taken directly to the new delivery robot, FDR._ ”

Bucky sticks his head out the front door and sees what looks like a roomba - Clint’s got one of those in his Bed-Stuy apartment and Bucky loves it - with long metal arms driving away. As he watches it turns towards the stairs and keeps going. Oh, shit. He runs after it quickly, forgetting the box for a second as he picks the poor thing up and sets it in the elevator, pressing the button for the ground floor before he jumps out again.

He’s going to have to warn Tony that FDR has suicidal tendencies later.

Bucky’s lament over the poor robot grinds to a halt as he sees the box again. It’s got his name printed on the front in neat black letters. It’s just a box and not a bomb, but he glances around to make sure no one is around before he scoops it off the carpet and hustles it into his room.

He locks the door for good measure.

The box gives him the same feeling he had the last time he was standing in front of a ticking bomb. The label doesn’t tell him the company it came from, just that it’s from somewhere in California. Bucky’s got a lighter hidden in his boot. He could just take it outside and set it on fire, destroy it so no one would know.

 _He_ would know.

Bucky sits down on the bed with the box in his lap. It’s lighter than he expects - some part of him expects it to be heavy with the weight of his own embarrassment. It’s not, because that weight belongs directly in the center of his brain where it can give him a headache.

He bites the inside of his cheek, pulls a knife from his jacket and slices the tape keeping the box sealed. His heartbeat is so loud he can hear it thumping in his ears, and he sets the knife down and carefully, slowly tugs open the flaps.

A loud beep makes him jump half a mile.

Bucky’s already in a panic when he realizes it’s just his mobile phone. He hasn’t been caught out doing something he isn’t supposed to. Part of him realizes he’s being ridiculous about all this, but that part is squashed by the clamoring of his own anxiety.

He reaches for his phone and checks the text that’s been sent.

 _Want to go out for a beer?_ Steve’s message reads.

Bucky looks at the message and then back at the box.

He opens the box properly.

God, what was he thinking when he ordered this? He _wasn’t_ thinking, but. Bucky pulls out soft lace and imagines it against the half-tanned mess of Clint’s skin. Imagines asking Clint for this, explaining that there’s something in his brain that connects Clint Barton with soft, flimsy fabric and finds it unbearable, mind-sizzling levels of beautiful.

He doesn’t go out that night.

Bucky shoves the box under his bed and tries to forget. Clint’s away on a mission. He doesn’t need to know about Bucky’s sudden lapse of judgement.

“Hey, hot stuff,” Clint says without looking up from the stack of files on the counter. “What’s up?”

Bucky wraps his arms around Clint’s shoulders and leans against his back, presses his nose against the back of Clint’s neck. It’s comforting. Clint’s wearing a hoodie that’s too big to be his - Thor’s, maybe, and it smells like rain and copper. Bucky snuggles in a little closer and Clint leans back against him, although Bucky can still hear the scratch of pen on paper.

“I saw a monster made of melted cheese today,” Clint tells him, unbothered by Bucky’s silence. “Nat wouldn’t let me try to eat him.”

Bucky rubs his face against the hoodie. “Does Natasha have all of your self-control?”

“She _is_ my self-control,” Clint admits.

“Mm,” Bucky says, momentarily distracted. “You gonna be doing this for a while?”

“Probably,” Clint says regretfully. “It’s pretty boring. If you want to go do something else while I get it finished, you can.”

He’s kind of tempted to stay where he is, if he’s honest. Nothing wrong with being draped over your boyfriend like the heaviest shawl the world’s seen. Clint could probably get the report done while he stayed here too, except Clint’s easily distracted and Bucky’s not willing to face Fury again when the last report had turned into a terrible doodle of his face.

(The one _before_ that was suspiciously crumpled. Bucky hopes that SHIELD doesn’t know what crumpled it.)

Bucky lazily rolls his hips up against Clint’s spine. He’s not actually trying to instigate anything - that’d be mean, and Bucky’s usually pretty insistent that Clint gets work done first. It’s still nice, though, the slow buzz of pleasure as his dick rubs against three layers of cloth.

“Sooner I get it done, sooner we can fool around,” Clint adds, and that seals it for Bucky. He’s missed Clint and he’s missed the skin-on-skin contact more than anything else. It’s not just a sex thing, it’s more of a touch thing.

“I’m gonna take a nap,” he says, brushes his nose against Clint’s neck before he lets go. He catches a glimpse of a smile before he goes, and it’s sweet enough that he forgets about everything else besides stripping off his pants and rolling onto the mattress.

Bucky wakes up to a faint clinking noise and a hissed curse, makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat. He’s still drowsy and sleep-warm, blinks his eyes open blearily to look at the ceiling.

Clint’s left an arrow embedded in it at some point and he stares at that as the world comes into focus, and then there’s a quiet “aha!” from somewhere to his left. He turns his head to the side and promptly forgets how to breathe. His heart might have stopped beating.

His heart’s stopped beating because the box - the terrible, wonderful box - is laying on the carpet, empty.

The bathroom door’s hanging open and he can see Clint’s sweatpants pooled on the tiles. They’re his comfort ones for after-mission relaxation (read: they’re easy to take off and old enough that stains are irrelevant) and Bucky wonders how tired he was that he’s slept through this. He can hear Clint muttering to himself in the bathroom about razors and being old.

Razors? Is this how he dies?

Clint _doesn’t_ sound mad, but Bucky’s still frozen with fear. He looks down at the empty box, looks back at the bathroom, looks back at the box again. It’s still empty. The tissue paper it was lined with is a shade of red that makes him think about blood, makes him think about danger. _This_ is dangerous.

“Clint?” It’s more of a croak.

“Yeah, baby,” Clint answers. He doesn’t sound upset either, just- distracted. “Give me a second.”

Bucky waits with his heart in his throat. What if Clint’s planning some kind of a breakup speech? _Sorry, Buck, this is too weird for me, I’m out_. Or he could misinterpret it, thinks Bucky’s trying to change him in some way like Clint isn’t all kinds of perfect anyway and it’s too much, he can’t-

“Okay,” Clint says. “You ready?”

 _No_ , Bucky thinks, braces himself for the worst outcome.

He’s _not_ prepared, but not for the reasons he thinks he isn’t.

Clint steps into view, leans an elbow up against the door frame. Bucky’s immediately distracted by the movement, his mouth going dry at the hard lines of muscle in Clint’s arm. He’s supposed to be panicking right now but _Jesus_. It feels like every time he sees Clint it’s the first time, his brain stuttering to a halt in front of that casual smirk and the easy control Clint moves with.

God, he loves this man.

“So?” Bucky blinks and Clint waves a hand below his bare chest, and when Bucky actually looks he feels his brain die inside his skull.

Because Clint hasn’t just found the contents of the box, he’s put it _on_ as well.

There’s lace around his slim waist, down his thighs, covering the generous bulge of his dick through the fabric. Bucky was right on the money with the measurements and the panties are just tight enough for an almost pornographic scene, the garter belt sitting neatly above it. The socks end on the upper end of Clint’s thighs, his long legs covered in soft lavender cloth.

 _Oh god_ , Bucky thinks, quiet and desperate, because it’s as gorgeous as he’d imagined. It’s possibly more because it’s on Clint’s body instead of on a model or in Bucky’s fantasies, the lace blending in with the scars, the pastel purple matching off with Clint’s hearing aids.

“Buck? Anyone home in there?”

“You weren’t supposed to see it,” Bucky says. He’s staring, can’t help it, and Clint’s cheeks go a little red under the weight of his gaze. “I hid it.”

“Putting something under the bed doesn’t count as hiding it,” Clint tells him.

He’s so pretty that it hurts to look at him, and even though Bucky’s mind is disintegrating piece-by-piece with the sight of him, he can still see the little flicker of anxiety under the smug expression.

Clint’s a master at schooling his own face but his tells come in the form of movement, the way Bucky can see him shifting on his feet.

“Fucking hell,” Bucky breathes.

“I could put it back,” Clint offers. “But I figured we could have some fun.”

“What’d you, uh. What’d you have in mind?”

“Get naked and I’ll share,” Clint says, upfront as always.

Bucky scrambles to kick off his underwear, pulls his shirt off so fast that he hears it rip and can’t find it in himself to give a single shit. (It’s Steve’s shirt anyway. Fuck it.) It seems to ease the lingering nerves from Clint either way, judging from the slightly sleazy grin he gets. Bucky’s only half-hard but that’s mostly because he’s still in shock, as he watches Clint’s socked feet curl in their fabric confines.

“Anyone’d think you’re in a hurry,” Clint remarks. The calm amusement in his voice is betrayed by the way his right hand curls against his hip, like he’s trying not to touch himself.

“Please,” Bucky says, voice rough. “Can you- I want to see.”

“You can already see,” Clint says, but he approaches nonetheless. He stops just out of the reach of Bucky’s hands and Bucky’s heart is beating so fast that he’s worried he’s going to pass out. God, it’s- Clint turns to one side like he’s showing off, and the panties are a _lot_ less modest than they’d looked on the model. (Probably because Clint’s got more ass than she had. Bucky’s sure as hell not complaining.)

 _Wow_ , Bucky almost says, but that’d make him sound even stupider than he feels. Instead he just stares.

“Fits real nice,” Clint says, pats his own asscheek. Bucky snorts at that. “How come you weren’t gonna share?”

“Didn’t think it was fair to ask,” Bucky admits.

Clint’s expression softens at that. It’s the same face he makes when he sees a particularly cute dog, that kind of helpless love that makes Bucky want to roll around in it. He gets closer then, smoothing his hands over Bucky’s shoulders before he straddles Bucky’s thigh and sits himself down. “Buck. C’mon. You want something, you ask for it. Even if you want me to like, I don’t know, use a dragonfruit during sex or some shit you _ask_ me, alright?”

“I- a dragonfruit? The fuck, Barton.”

“It was just an example, you doof,” Clint replies, leans forward so their foreheads are pressed together. “You know I’d do anything for you, right? ‘sides, this is hot, I like it.”

Bucky’s voice, when he finds it, is cautious. “Yeah?”

“I don’t know, I used to wear skirts in the circus,” Clint says, brushes their noses together and presses a far-too-short kiss to his lips. “Feels nice. Like the way you’re looking at me.”

“I want pictures of the skirt,” Bucky answers automatically. He’d fallen into a panic so quickly that he hadn’t even considered that Clint might _like_ dressing up. Although in retrospect he should’ve guessed, what with the costumed vigilante act and the way Clint’s eyes light up at anything neon purple.

“Photos later,” Clint says. “I want to have a little fun with you first.”

He wriggles on Bucky’s leg, not quite grinding on him but getting close, and Bucky’s got to touch.

The stockings are delicate and flimsy under Bucky’s fingers, thin enough that he can feel the heat coming off of Clint’s skin. He sweeps his fingers up from Clint’s knees to his thighs, thumbs at the straps of the garter belt and the smooth skin underneath.

Wait. “Did you shave your legs?”

“Might’ve,” Clint agrees easily, and Bucky’s breath catches. He wants to get his mouth on Clint through the panties, wants to set his teeth into the curve of Clint’s thigh where the stockings end and bite down. He wants those thighs squeezing around his ears while Clint makes those bitten-off gasps he does when it’s riding that edge of too much.

“Fuck,” he says eventually, and it comes out awe-struck. Shit, but he’s hard.

“We could do that,” Clint says, leans back so Bucky can see the glorious lines of his abs. “Wanna fuck me in the stockings?”

 _God_ , that’s. _Fuck_. Bucky makes a sound but he’s not sure what it means, whether it properly communicates how much the mental image is killing him. Clint’s dick is tenting the panties obscenely and it’s too much to see all his half-dreamed fantasies come to life like this _and_ deal with the mental image of his dick sliding into Clint like this as well.

“Lay down,” Clint directs as he stands up.

Bucky doesn’t grab for him, but it’s a close call. If Clint wants him to lay down he’ll fucking lay down. He’s pretty sure if Clint pulled a gun out of their drawer and told him to shoot Tony in the foot Bucky would consider it. The little voice inside him that’s still the Soldier insists that’s dangerous, to be so weak for someone - though Clint’s already deep inside his defence, so the thought is wasted.

He’s propped up by the pillows enough that he can easily see Clint’s fingers slipping over his own clothed dick and squeezing gently like he can’t help it. Clint’s got his other hand in the drawer rummaging around through their supplies.

Bucky’s vaguely aware he’s not being a lot of help, but Clint seems happy to be taking the reins. More than happy, judging from the way he starts slicking up his fingers before he even gets back on the bed. Bucky’s at a loss for words. He’s not sure what face he’s making right now but it makes Clint pause, hand wet and dick hard in the delicate underwear.

“Wow,” Clint says, eyebrows lifting with surprise. “You really like this stuff, huh?”

“I really like _you_ in this stuff,” Bucky answers, puts too much emphasis on it.

It’s exactly what he means to say but Clint gets a little weird about blatant confessions of attraction - it’s like he can’t quite process that Bucky’s in love with him, even though _Clint_ was the one who said it first. Bucky’s pretty sure Clint doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

Clint makes that awkward little face exactly like Bucky knew he would, but he shakes it off a second later, turns it into a dangerous grin as he swings a leg over Bucky’s thighs and drops down into his lap properly. The lace rubs up against Bucky’s half-hard cock and it should be uncomfortable (it _is_ uncomfortable) but a frisson of heat runs up his spine anyway.

“What do you want?”

“I,” Bucky says, falters. He hadn’t made a plan for this. He hadn’t even realized that _this_ would be a real thing, and he’s still reeling from it. There’s only one answer he’s got, though. “I want to make you feel good. Please.”

“I can do that,” Clint agrees and then grinds down on him slow and dirty. Clint shifts a second later to wrap his lube-slick fingers around Bucky’s aching dick, strokes him easy as he leans down to kiss Bucky properly, teeth and tongue like he needs to lay claim when Bucky’s all his anyway.

The handjob’s slow and leisurely, not _nearly_ enough to get him off but enough that he’s switched on, that every rasp of lace against his skin makes heat pool in his stomach. Clint’s smiling against his lips a little when he’s not proceeding with the slow ravaging of Bucky’s mouth. He feels pleased about this whole thing and Bucky’s _so_ into it, he’s so into _Clint_.

There’s one thing wrong with this, though.

“I can’t-” Bucky says, the words getting muddled as Clint’s callouses catch in exactly the right way. Clint’s still grinding on him in short little thrusts that suggest it might be subconscious, his breathing stuttering.

“Can’t _what_ ,” Clint says, and how does he sound so put-together?

Right. “I just-” he starts again, touches Clint’s legs, the curve of his ass. “I want to _see_.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re a tease, Barton,” he manages as Clint sits back, smiles at him all lopsided and pleased.

“Gonna tease you more before this is over,” Clint comments.

That’s when Bucky notices his other hand is behind him, making familiar movements just out of view. “Are you-”

“Might be,” Clint says with a hint of teasing, but his voice catches on the words. “Fuck.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky echoes. “Clint, you gotta-”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Just let me- shit, hang on.”

Bucky can only lift his head and watch as Clint peels the panties off one-handed, steps out of the tiny scrap of fabric neatly and then tosses it over his shoulder. It lands directly in the laundry basket because of _course_ it does, and then Bucky’s more than slightly distracted by the hard line of Clint’s dick.

It looks even more obscene framed by the gentle purples of the lingerie and the pale scars in the blank spaces of skin, somehow. Bucky’s mouth is so dry he feels like he’s going to choke, and all he can hope is that he chokes on that dick because _Jesus fucking Christ_.

“Buck?”

“You’re killing me,” he rasps.

Clint’s faint smile feels a touch dangerous. “Good.”

Clint’s fingers wrap around Bucky’s dick carefully, callouses rubbing up against his overheated skin. Bucky’s breath catches as his dick rubs against Clint’s ass once, twice, and then Clint’s guiding him inside so slow that Bucky’s jaw aches from clenching it as hard as he is.

He’d be more impatient if he wasn’t so enraptured with Clint’s face, with the way he tips his head back and his mouth goes slack like it’s just on the edge of too much.

It feels like he’s been laying here for a century when Clint’s ass connects with his thighs, fingers curling against Bucky’s chest. Clint’s eyes are closed and his eyelashes are dark gold against his face, teeth biting his lip. His cock is brushing the garter belt and it’s the most glorious thing Bucky’s ever seen (bar that one time he’d been about to get his throat cut by a killer robot and an arrow had appeared through its skull).

“You feel good,” Clint says.

“You’re incredible,” Bucky breathes. “ _God_.”

“Just me,” Clint says. Bucky can’t get mad at him right now for terrible jokes - fuck, he’s not going to be able to get mad at Clint for weeks now because he’s going to be imagining this, Clint’s thighs rubbing silk on him as he starts moving.

Bucky’s hips are shifting automatically to meet his thrusts but his entire attention is focused on the way Clint looks, committing every inch to memory. It doesn’t stop him from overheating from it, from the way Clint’s dick is brushing his stomach.

God, but it’s amazing. Even without the panties it’s a sight that blows him right out of the water, and Clint’s working into a rhythm that’s making his breathing harder, his dick throbbing with the urge to come.

He’s so close, he’s _so_ -

Clint stops.

“What,” Bucky says, feels stupid and drunk on his own arousal. Why did he _stop_?

“Not yet. I want to enjoy this,” Clint tells him. He tips his head to the side, sweat sticking part of his hair to his face. “You’ve had your fun, let me have mine.”

“I’m having fun,” Bucky breathes.

The grin edges back onto Clint’s face. “Yeah, you are. Can you hold on for me?”

Bucky breathes for a few more seconds before he nods agreement. He’d do anything for Clint - anything, doesn’t matter if it’s to fetch a pizza or to kill a guy. But he’s right on the edge as it is and he’s unraveling at the edges already. What happens if he _can’t_ stop himself from coming?

That’s not really an option, though.

Clint just smiles at him before he starts rolling his hips again. He’s not supersoldier strong but there’s hard-earned muscle on every inch of him and it shouldn’t work with the lingerie but it _does,_ and maybe it’s something to do with how lethal and battle-ready Clint always is. He’s the typical jock and Bucky likes seeing him softer, likes seeing how gorgeous he looks in it.

Clint’s unaware of this mental discussion, so he doesn’t know any of it. He’s just focused on riding Bucky’s dick so hard that Bucky’s skin is prickling with it. Too soon he’s cracking, the urge to come pulling at him again and threatening to pull him under.

“Clint,” he says urgently, desperate.

Clint stops again with Bucky’s dick deep inside him. He’s got one hand around his own length now, fingers brushing up the flushed skin. It’s like he can’t help touching himself, hand rubbing up against the garter belt now.

Something in Bucky’s brain clicks, watching Clint squirm on his dick. _He_ likes it too. Shit. That’s _so_ much, and Bucky’s brain is on fire. His dick isn’t going to survive this and when Clint goes to move again Bucky holds one hand up to make him stop for a second, closes his eyes tries to breathe.

“Bucky,” Clint says, leaving no room for argument. “Look at me.”

Bucky blinks his eyes open blearily, immediately focuses on the delicate lace edging against Clint’s stomach. It’s no easier than looking at the bead of precome sliding down his dick, but it’s softer. He groans when Clint squeezes around him, shifts like he’s trying not to move and can’t help it.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’m. I’m sorry, you’re just so…”

“Yeah,” Clint says softly. “You’re into this, baby? Like seeing me like this?”

“You’re so goddamn pretty,” Bucky says, gets a little choked up over it for no reason. His hands are trembling when he reaches up to touch, ends up cradling Clint’s hips in his fingers.

It’s just- he’d spent so many years being nothing to anyone, no one giving a single shit except for the times he’d done something wrong on a mission. He’d never imagined his boyfriend sitting in his lap (or that he’d have a boyfriend at all) like there’s no place he’d rather be, wearing lingerie because Bucky likes it and a smile that makes Bucky’s chest warm.

He’s also going to die if he doesn’t come soon, though.

“You’re pretty too,” Clint says, because of _course_ he does.

Bucky can feel the muscles flex when he rolls his hips, breath stuttering in his chest when Clint makes a bitten-off noise and thrusts down on his dick.

Then Clint stops again.

Bucky makes a noise and it sounds like he’s in pain - maybe he is - a wounded, pathetic sound that slips past his teeth. His eyelashes feel suspiciously damp when he blinks and Clint’s face softens visibly, something helplessly affectionate in his expression.

Clint leans forward, cups Bucky’s cheek gently in one hand and presses his lips to Bucky’s forehead, his nose, his cheeks. It’s sweet and loving and so goddamn _soft_ it aches, and Bucky can feel Clint’s smile on his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, because he’s definitely crying now. This is supposed to be a _sexy_ thing, not a feelings thing.

It’s both, though. He’s never going to get anyone else like Clint, who barely bats an eye at all the trauma and weird shit because he’s full of trauma and weird shit too, who’ll spoon him when he needs it and leave him alone when he needs that. He’s never going to find anyone who goes along with the kinks he can’t voice and likes them too.

He’s never going to find someone who _loves_ him as much as Clint does.

“Aw,” Clint says, pressing another kiss to his lips. “It’s okay, baby. You need to call it?”

“Don’t stop,” Bucky says immediately. It’s desperate and he’s embarrassing himself and he _doesn’t care_ as long as Clint doesn’t move away from him.

“Okay,” Clint agrees without missing a beat, kissing him again. He doesn’t seem to care that Bucky’s having trouble reciprocating. “Gonna start moving again in a sec. You got this?”

“I got this,” Bucky answers raggedly. His voice is shredded.

There’s no verbal acknowledgement from Clint other than nearly-inaudible swearing, as he rolls his hips and Bucky just tries to hold on.

Black spots dance in front of his vision like they’re taunting him. His chest is heaving with each breath but it feels as if the oxygen isn’t reaching his brain at all, and he’s lightheaded and breathless with the effort of holding off while Clint grinds down on his dick. He’s completely at Clint’s mercy even though Bucky’s fingers are clenching so hard it’s going to leave dappled bruises on Clint’s hips for weeks later.

“Clint,” he says. _Pleads_ , because his body can only take so much and he’s either going to come or die trying.

“Doing so good for me,” Clint answers raggedly, sounds like he’s right on that edge as well. Bucky realizes that Clint’s edging _himself_ as well as Bucky, suddenly sees the clench in Clint’s jaw and the way his thighs are squeezing Bucky’s waist with each movement.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky says and Clint swears too, loud and vicious, and gets one hand on his dick as he comes on Bucky’s chest, breathing hard enough that it sounds like it hurts. He’s shaking and clenching sporadically around Bucky’s dick, and it’s too much.

Bucky stares at him and tries his hardest not to cry any harder. Every breath is coming out as a half-sobbed mess but he can’t, Clint hasn’t told him that he can yet and he’s not going to go against what Clint told him to do. He just keeps looking at the lingerie and Clint’s dick and Clint’s _face_ , the heat written all over it.

“Shit,” Clint breathes, glances up at Bucky’s face. “You didn’t-?”

Bucky shakes his head. He’s beyond words right now, beyond anything but letting Clint do whatever he wants.

“You’re so good,” Clint says, keeping himself balanced with one hand as he presses his lips to Bucky’s jaw.

He rolls his hips again and Bucky’s breath stops in his lungs for a full minute until Clint pauses again. It’s only for a second - Clint’s doing those little shivers that tells Bucky the sensations are getting too much for him - and then he’s riding him properly again.

“You can- you can come,” Clint manages, and the minute Bucky registers the words he’s coming so hard he whites out.

He comes back to Clint maneuvering carefully so he can sprawl out on Bucky’s chest.

Clint’s weight is comforting against him - normally he’d be complaining about the mess and insisting they clean up, but whatever. It doesn’t seem relevant right now.

The lace is rubbing against his bare skin. It’s new. Bucky blinks at the ceiling and tries to get rid of the spots still dancing in front of his eyes.

“Okay?”

“Fucking hell,” Bucky croaks. He doesn’t remember how a single one of his limbs work. He might be paralyzed from the neck down, except he can still feel it, he just can’t move.

Worth it, though.

“Wow,” Clint says, blinks at him a few times. His pupils are still dilated, the blue swallowed up by black. “Should’ve done this sooner.”

“Uh huh,” Bucky says. “Except it would’ve killed me.”

“Aw,” Clint says, soft and affectionate. He cups Bucky’s jaw in one hand, presses a kiss to his cheek. “You’re cute.”

Bucky has no idea where he got that impression, but he’s okay with it.

“All I’m saying is that you’ve made a million robots for a million different things, there’s no reason you can’t make a pizza robot,” Clint argues. “Think about how cool it’d be, Stark.”

Tony sighs heavily. “Just get the pizza out the oven, Barton.”

“Also, Bucky stole your roomba,” Clint adds, the traitor.

FDR beeps cheerfully from where he’s sitting at Bucky’s feet, and Bucky sets a drinks coaster in the open palm of one skeletal hand. He feels his lips curl up into a smile as FDR takes it delicately and then wheels around to find someone to deliver it to. The robot goes to Clint automatically - whether it’s because he’s closest or because the robot knows that they’re dating is anyone’s guess - and waves the coaster at him.

Clint looks suitably pleased by the delivery, drops into a crouch so the robot can hand it over. As he’s crouching though, his shirt rides up his back and Bucky’s greeted with an eyeful of delicate red straps crisscrossing over Clint’s hips and disappearing down into his sweatpants.

Fucking hell.

“I need funeral arrangements,” he tells FDR when it returns to him.

It beeps.

Yeah, that’s what he thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Winterhawk Bingo Square: Edging
> 
> This has art! Check it out on Twitter: [Here](https://twitter.com/Pegaslick/status/1256702725749964806)


End file.
